


Ain't no Saviour

by SageMasterofSass



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Blood, Caring!Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, M/M, Rashes, Sickfic, What a dumbass, Why does Wilson put up with him tbh, all very minor tbh, also an asshole, mostly it's fluff, oh b/c they're madly in love, once again house should not and cannot be trusted with his own health, sick!House, somewhat graphic description of an infection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 08:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageMasterofSass/pseuds/SageMasterofSass
Summary: To fill the following prompt;basically Houses leg gets infected, and he’s in so much pain that he can’t leave his bed and is taking the limit of Vicodin (as much as possible without killing him self) - Wilson stays by his side the whole time and never leaves, holding him and doting on him even when House snaps at him.





	Ain't no Saviour

**Author's Note:**

> bvvvv I hope this came out well i spent way too much time on it for just 5k words

“Do you have a death wish?”

The words are tense and stressed, concern covered by layers upon layers of anger and resignation.

House glares as best he can, but he’s drugged and in pain and feeling pretty fucking pathetic right about now.

“Only on Tuesdays,” he manages to slur.

Wilson stands in the doorway looking impeccable as ever, his coat thrown over his arm like he’d been on his way out of the hospital when he heard the news. His tie is a little loose, hair tousled the way it gets after a busy day when he’s been running his hands through it.

It’s been a week since House has seen him, and he’d be lying if he said Wilson isn’t a sight for sore eyes. Or maybe his eyes are just sore.

“I thought you were taking a- a vacation or something,” Wilson says, coming into the room. He sets his briefcase and coat in a chair and then pulls another up as close as it’ll get to the bed. He’s got House’s file in his hands. This shouldn’t feel familiar but it does. Wilson leans his arms on the railing, close enough to touch, and House closes his eyes because the room is starting to spin.

“Only you would take a week off to let a wound fester and then come back for the sole purpose of being hospitalized, instead of just having the wound treated from the beginning.”

“Shouldn’t be infected,” House mutters.

Everything in him hurts right now. He’s on the good stuff, a constant morphine drip, but the right half of his body still feels molten. His thigh is an endless source of radiating pain, a slow pulse of white hot agony that reaches the tips of his toes and the roots of his hair. It’s dulled of course but occasionally his vision goes dark and his thoughts are scattered and airy.

Wilson sighs and starts flipping through the chart silently. His eyes flicker between the pages and House’s face.

House knows what’s in the file.

There’s these injections. They’re more street than medical, but he’s seen a couple of studies floating around about them anyways and they’re proving to be very good pain killers. Mostly steroid, a little bit opiod, and direct contact to the muscle works wonders.

He’d only tried the shit twice. It had been good, great actually. Worked like a fucking dream. But the second time. Well, he’d somehow managed to give himself an infection despite the fact that he’d brought perfectly sterile hypodermic needles home with him from the hospital. He’s still not sure how it happened actually. All his years of being a doctor and he’s never given someone an infection via injection. It’s not entirely unheard of, but, well…

Trust House to always do the unexpected, the previously unheard of. It’s basically his forte.

But the infection had formed, a wonderful little strain of bacterial cellulitis. Cellulitis, a fucking skin infection, which forms raised, tender rashes, a bright red swelling that occasionally blisters. And of course, because fuck his life, it’s centered around his scar. The source of his chronic pain that’s made him both a cripple and a drug addict. So far he’s found out that scar can’t keep up with the healthy skin’s swelling and cracks open and bleeds when the swelling gets to be too bad. It’s great.

Throw in the fever and the random blisters spreading down his leg and he’s. Well. He’s in the hospital on a morphine drip and is, despite that, still in agony.

Wilson sighs and closes the file. He looks tired. Not as tired as House feels, but up close his suit is slightly wrinkled and there are dark circles forming under eyes, like maybe he hasn’t been sleeping well.

“You never do anything by halves, do you?” he says dryly. Again, concern hidden by resignation and anger.

House slips into slumber before he can fully respond.

oOo

“The infection is spreading, it’s not reacting to the antibotics,” Cuddy says seriously.

“No fucking shit,” House snaps. “What tipped you off, the rash that’s reached my foot, or the fact that I wake up screaming in pain because the cellulitis is eating up my scar?”

A touch on his arm stop his from baring his teeth, but only just barely. Cuddy, unflappable as ever, takes in the way Wilson is leaning towards him and says nothing. Instead she switches his antibiotic and gives him his new round of pills. He swallows them dry and glares until she leaves again.

“She’s only trying to help,” Wilson says into the resulting silence.  

House pulls his arm away from Wilson’s touch and swivels his glare from the door to the other doctor.

“Don’t take this out on me, you’re the idiot taking steroids and injecting himself with god knows what.”

“I did know what, actually,” House says acerbically. “Does that make me god?”

But if Cuddy is unflappable, Wilson is a goddamn mountain, completely immobile, impossible to phase. There’s a tightness around his eyes but he still smiles a little even as he sighs.

“I should fight you more on this,” he says after a moment. “Give you a dressing down, really beat it into that thick skull of yours that you fucked up, that you can’t play with your life and health that way. But something tells me the pain you’re in is doing a pretty good job of that already.”

House studies him, the slope of his shoulders, the way he’s obviously angry and hurt but is refusing to vent those emotions. Normally House would try to add gasoline to the fire, really get Wilson to explode at him. It’s what House does best. He gets under people’s skins until they blow up and accidentally tell him the vital piece of truth he was after all along.

There’s something hiding underneath all that anger and concern, something vulnerable. Soft. But House is tired, and in pain, and he should want to bite this man’s head off but instead he finds himself slumping against his pillows with a grumble.

“I’m going to kill my dealer when I get out of here,” he confides.

Wilson snorts. “If you can catch him. Something tells me you won’t be walking for a while, much less chasing anyone down.” He stands with a rustle of clothing and a little stretch that untucks part of his shirt. Sloppy. He’s been coming in looking a lot messier than usual lately. Normally he takes so much pride in his appearance, but it’s almost like he’s frazzled in the mornings, too distracted or upset to really care how he’s putting his clothes on or doing his hair.

Something tells House that if it weren’t for his responsibilities in the oncology department, Wilson would be by his bedside nearly constantly. He already knows Cuddy has cut his hours and let him off clinic duty, the lucky bastard.

“Want anything from the cafeteria?” Wilson asks. “I’m starving.”

House purses his lips. He’s so fucking tired of hospital food and not even hungry besides, too wracked with pain. “I want a burger,” he decides. “Something from a fast food restaurant, something that would clog my arteries just looking at it.” Because looking at it is mostly what he’d do anyways.

Wilson pauses from where he’d been gathering his things; coat, briefcase, the pager he sets aside whenever he steps into the room. Like once he’s crossed that doorway his job is no longer of any importance. Insignificant in the face of…what? House?

“I’ll see what I can do,” Wilson says after a moment, and then he’s leaving and House is left alone with the muted TV in the corner. He wasn’t the one who muted it. The subtitles are on, but the screen is so tiny he can’t make out the words from here.

The remote is by his left hand. Wilson always sits on his right because that’s where the chairs are. The door is to his right. The TV, even, is situated in the far right corner.

But Wilson still leaves the remote on the left because he knows that moving anything on the right side of his body leaves House shaky and gasping.

He picks up the remote and hits the button to unmute TV, falling only partially into the drama unfolding on screen. His thoughts whirl quietly, dampened by the morphine but not deadened. He’s used to unraveling mysteries while doped up after all.

oOo

There’s a night House wakes up only to find Wilson asleep next to him.

The room is dark, curtains drawn over the glass wall. There’s still a bit of light leaking in from the unit, and the soft shadows of nurses going about their business pass at semi-even intervals. His EKG beeps quietly beside him and the only other noise in the room is the soft whir of cool air being pushed through the vents.

At some point Wilson must have put the bed rail closest to him down because he’s slumped against the mattress, arms pillowed under his head. His back falls rhythmically, but the broad shoulders look tense even in sleep, knotted under the fabric of a plain white button down.

You never realize exactly how small a hospital bed is until you’ve been confined to one. After a certain point they feel suffocating. There are only so many positions you can lay in because of the rails and the size, and those are tempered further by IVs and any monitors you’re hooked up to.

It’s no surprise that he bed is so small Wilson’s arms are pressed against House’s hip. There’s just no room, and it’ not like House can, or really wants to, wriggle away.

There’s a blanket thrown over his lap, and he’s wearing a pair of boxers underneath that besides. But he can still feel the heat of that minute contact, that one point of connection between them.

House falls asleep again without realizing it.

oOo

“You know checking out AMA really isn’t a good idea,” Wilson says dryly.

House snorts from where he’s slowly, carefully, putting his belongings into a bag. After being here for almost three weeks he’s got a bit of a conglomeration, all of them brought by Wilson.

“I think that might be why they call it against medical advice,” he snips.

It doesn’t get a rise out of Wilson, but Wilson is also mostly immune to House’s particular brand of asshole. Unfortunate, but it’s also probably what’s kept him around for so long.

House kind of feels like curling up and dying, he’s in so much pain. But if he has to sit in this room a minute longer he’s going to end up committing murder, which doesn’t really bother him, but Wilson would probably end up helping him cover it up and he can’t drag the other man down with him like that.

Also it’s been three weeks. The infection is responding to the new antibiotics and he’s healing, albeit really fucking slowly. They’ve even reduced his morphine intake, much to his chagrin. It’s definitely time to go.

“You know going AMA means you don’t get a wheelchair out of here, right?” Wilson is leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re going to have to walk.”

“That’s what the cane is for,” House replies, roughly shoving his Gameboy into the bag. “And you, for that matter.” With that he zips the bag up and tosses it over his left shoulder, the easy movement belied by the way he grimaces and grits his teeth. The morphine is still in his system but standing and moving is actual hell.

“You’re really going to kill yourself one of these days,” Wilson says casually, even as he steps forward to take the bag from House. “Come on, we’ll stop by the pharmacy to pick up your Vicodin and antibiotics, and then I’ll drive you home.”

“You’re a fucking saint.”

“Kind of have to be to put up with you all the time.”

They bicker all the way through the hospital, to Wilson’s car, and on into House’s apartment where he promptly collapses onto his couch in an exhausted, painful heap.

Wilson places the prescription bottles within easy reach on the coffee table, and then wanders into the kitchen. “If you overdose on those I’m literally going to sell your apartment and force you to move in with me so I can supervise you like the child you are,” he calls easily. House can hear him rummaging through the cabinets in there.

“The apartment’s in my name, asshole!” House calls back, then fusses with a pillow until it’s positioned behind him just right. When Wilson still hasn’t come out of the kitchen by the time he’s flicked the TV on he furrows his brow and yells, “What the hell are you doing in there?”

A moment later Wilson appears in the open entry way. “I was looking for something to make for dinner.”

House stares at him for a moment. “It’s two in the afternoon,” he eventually says. “And you have to go back to the hospital.”

The look Wilson gives him is the one you give a small, slow child. “I’m coming back after my shift. You’re crazy if you think I’m going to leave you alone when you’re still sick and in pain.”

House hasn’t actually considered what he’ll do now that he’s home home, much less what Wilson will be doing. It makes since though, Wilson has been fussing over him for weeks now like the giant, unlikely mother hen that he is. It clashes a little with his dry, acerbic sense of humor but House knows he’s all squishy emotion underneath it.

“Dinner better be good,” he grumbles.

Wilson huffs at him, hands going to his hips. “It might be if you lived off of anything but beer and instant meals. I’ll have to pick up groceries after work.”

House can’t decide if he should make a mom joke or one about their apparent new found domesticity. He settles on sticking his tongue out cause he’s mature like that.

And because Wilson is also mature, he sticks his tongue out right back at House and then leaves.

There’s definitely a reason House still keeps him around.

oOo

By the time evening rolls around and Wilson is set to come back again, House is dying. The morphine had worn off only an hour or so after he’d gotten home and he’d started popping Vicodin in it’s place, carefully watching his intake because Wilson, but still taking more than he probably should. It’s barely as effective as the morphine had been, which means he’s still in pain.

On top of that, apparently it doesn’t really matter what kind of cell you’re in. Prison is prison. He’s basically doing the same exact shit he was while in the hospital, only now there’s more stuff to taunt him because he’s in too much pain to get up and reach it. Like his piano. His bed. His bookshelves. The bag of shit he’d left by the door. He’d tried to use his cane to pull the bag closer but had mostly ended up twisted awkwardly on the couch and cussing loudly.

So he sighs and pulls a pillow against his chest and watches some more TV. He never thought there’d be a day when he was actually sick of soap operas, but here he is.

He doesn’t realize he’s drifted off to sleep until he wakes to soft fingers in his hair. He blinks groggily, tilting his head back to peer through half shut eyes at Wilson.

Wilson gives him this soft little smile, gently running his fingers through House’s hair again before retreating. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” he says. “I brought food. You hungry?”

House doesn’t answer immediately, because his brain has been stalled out by that affectionate touch. People rarely touch him, and even then it’s for a strict reason. A nurse taking his pulse or changing his IV, someone punching him, a grip on his arm to stop him. Never something soft, a touch just to touch, to feel, to be close.

“House?” Wilson’s voice, soft and concerned, pulls him out of his thoughts. He shakes his head and then slowly, carefully sits up on the couch.

“Yeah, I’m hungry,” he says instead of answering the worried expression on his friend’s face. His voice comes out a little gruffer than he’s expecting but he blames it on still being half asleep.

Wilson gives him an odd look but continues on to the kitchen to set down the plastic bags in his hands. He rustles around in there for a minute before calling, “Is breakfast for dinner okay? I have a craving for pancakes for some reason.”

“Only if you make them into shapes,” House calls back. It makes Wilson laugh and House is smiling before he can help himself. He wipes it off his face as soon as he notices though, and just like that something small and absolute clicks into place in his mind.

Wilson is in love with him. That’s what all of this…this, has been. The caring and hovering, the threats about taking care of himself the fucking cooking him dinner.

And House. Well. He’s not really sure how he’s feeling but he’s in terrible pain and Wilson just made him smile so there’s that.

He’s got a little more energy after his impromptu nap so he pops a Vicodin and then very slowly wanders into the kitchen to investigate.

Wilson is standing at the counter, mixing together what looks to be pancake batter. There are eggs and bacon next to the stove and two skillets are heating.

“Going all out I see,” House says with a raised eyebrow.

That earns him a sort of quizzical look before Wilson goes back to his prepping. “Not really, it’s just breakfast. Why are you up, aren’t you in pain?”

House tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing, and decides to aim a shot in the dark. “Maybe I wanted to spend time with you.”

Wilson doesn’t even turn from his task at that one, just snorts loudly. “Uh-huh. Still feeling restless then?”

So much for that approach. He’ll have to try something else. “I’ve been bed ridden for weeks, of course I’m feeling restless.”

“I told you coming home wouldn’t help you that much.” Wilson moves from the counter to the stove, laying bacon down into one of the pans with a series of sizzles and pops. In the other he starts pouring batter, arming himself with a spatula that House didn’t know he owned in order to flip the pancakes when they’re ready. “You don’t have anything to stimulate you mentally, of course you’re going to be restless.”

House opens his mouth to make a joke about stimulation and then stops, reconsiders. A moment later Wilson is swearing as the grease from the bacon pops him on the hand. This time House’s brain immediately jumps to grabbing Wilson, pulling him in close, closing his mouth over the wounded finger and licking.

Uh. Okay. So that’s totally a thought he just had. He shifts his weight, suddenly uncomfortable, and then curses loudly as his leg spasms. As he scrabbles to support his weight against the kitchen island he thinks he might feel one of the worst, most persistent rashes crack open and start bleeding. Fucking great.

Fumbling a little, Wilson turns the stove off and then turns to him, brow furrowed in worry. “Are you okay? Is it your leg? You really shouldn’t be up right now,” he chides, coming close and gently taking House’s elbow.

House grudgingly allows himself to be guided back to the couch in the living room, but only because his leg is now on fire. Gently Wilson helps him collapse back into the cushions, and then he pulls House’s leg up by the back of his knee to put it up on the coffee table.

“Have you put the ointment on it today?” Wilson asks, already rolling up the leg of House’s sweatpants.

House sits up and bats the other man’s hands because the rashes are gross, much less his scar and he doesn’t want Wilson messing with them. He’s refused to let anyone see them more than strictly necessary, even while he was in the hospital. “Leave it,” he growls, but Wilson just turns and glares at him.

“Obviously you’re incapable of taking care of yourself,” he starts, which House immediately starts to protest, “I use the ointment daily, who do you-” but Wilson just talks over him, louder and more insistent. “So let me take care of you, damnit!”

They stare at each other for a long moment, the air charged with tension and anger, before House eventually flops against the couch. He crosses his arms over his chest and transfers his glare to the far wall, wanting to snap that he’s not an invalid but, well…

Wilson continues rolling the pant leg up, all the way past his scar until the bundle of fabric is pushed dangerously close to his groin. House refuses to look down at the state of his leg, at the raised rashes that are starting to disappear but still mar his skin, especially over his scar. The blisters are gone at least, but he can hear Wilson tsk under his breath and mutter something about bleeding so his scar must be bleeding again.

The damn thing hasn’t been this painful since right after his surgery.

Wilson climbs to his feet and then comes back a minute later with a damp rag. It feels cool against House’s skin initially, but then Wilson starts scrubbing gently at the blood and he finds himself wincing, muscles clenching all down his leg.

“Stay still,” Wilson admonishes and delivers a little warning tap to House’s hip.

“Easy for you to say,” House growls. Unable to help himself his gaze is drawn downwards to the soft tousle of Wilson’s hair, his hands warm and slow on House’s leg. He’s patiently cleaning away the last of the blood with as little pressure as possible, moving from that to spreading the ointment in small, concise circles. It’s painful but soothing in a way, the ointment itself cool on skin that’s overly tight and hot.

Does he take care of all his friends this way, House wonders. Not that Wilson has a whole lot of friends, House is spectacularly good at being territorial, but if he did. Would he do this for them? Go down on his knees, cup the back of their knee, run soft touches over the places where they’re vulnerable and in pain.

Before he can over think the action, House reaches out and runs a hand through Wilson’s hair, much like the man had done for him earlier. Unsurprisingly, Wilson’s hair is downy soft, even mused after a long day of work. Probably all the conditioner and shit he uses, not to mention the blow drying.

Wilson side eyes him from under thick, brown lashes. But he doesn’t say anything, and the hands on House’s leg don’t falter. It’s strangely…domestic, sitting there like that. The television drones quietly, a consistent backdrop interrupted only by House’s occasional sharp intake of air and wince.

When Wilson sits back on his heels it pulls him out of House’s reach, and his arm falls lamely back to the couch. Neither of them mentions it.

“All done,” Wilson announces quietly, wiping his hands on the damp rag. Then he wanders off, presumably to wash his hands properly and continue dinner.

House watches him go, something heavy settling in his chest just below his sternum. It’s warm and unfamiliar but he thinks it probably answers the question of how he feels.

oOo

“Wilson.” He means to growl the word, really infuse as much anger and warning into it as he can. And he does manage that somewhat, but his voice is tight with pain, almost whiny, so the effect is kind of ruined.

Wilson arches a bushy eyebrow at him, looking supremely unimpressed. “You’ve already taken too much tonight,” he admonishes, not unkindly, and shakes the orange bottle in his hand to make it rattle. “You’re lucky that I’m going to give you another dose at all.”

“Yeah, in an hour,” House snarls, can feel the way his upper lip is curling, jaw clenched, teeth practically grinding together.

“Yes, in an hour. I’m not letting you overdose just because you’re used to it.”

“I’m not going to last a fucking hour!”

The outburst makes Wilson visibly soften, which is just plain offensive when House is practically hissing and spitting at him, trying to intimidate him into handing over the drugs. He pockets the Vicodin instead, like an alcohol.

“How about I help you get your mind off the pain?”

For an instant House’s mind flashes back to the kitchen, to watching Wilson burn himself and the sudden urge that came over House to pull him near, close his mouth around the wounded digits. The possibilities of where that could have led.

But obviously that’s not what Wilson is suggesting. Instead, he sits down next to House, a little closer than is usual for them, and slings his arm across the back of couch, right behind House’s head. House is scrunched down in the seat, bad leg propped up, and his back kind of hurts like this but the throbbing of his leg is more prominent so who cares.

“I’m a cripple with chronic pain and a drug addiction; you really think you can distract me from getting my next hit?” he asks acerbically.

“Maybe,” Wilson fires back easily. He crosses his legs on the coffee table and his arm inches closer to being on House’s shoulders rather than the back of the couch. “I distract people from the fact that they have cancer all the time.”

“Yeah, by putting on your boy scout act. We both know that shit doesn’t work on me.”

“You know, some of us are just nice people. We enjoy it even.” Wilson’s tone is light and amused, his dark gaze steady and warm on House’s face. It should feel like a normal conversation between them, their usual bickering back and forth, but the distance between them is so small that it’s changed everything. Suddenly their usual bickering feels so much different. Heavier. More suggestive.

House can’t find it in himself to dislike it.

“Distracting people is just another form of lying to them,” he declares.

Wilson’s face screws up. “You can’t actually believe that.”

House does actually, and for a while they argue back and forth about it, House winding Wilson up as much as he can in that way he’s mastered only after years of being the man’s friend. Surprisingly, it does actually distract him from his leg a bit.

But only a bit.

He still finds himself rubbing absently at his thigh even though the touch actually makes it kind of worse, and he winces occasionally as the throbbing reaches a crescendo. His entire body aches for the relief of the Vicodin. He can feel that need, chemical yet primal in nature, down to his fingernails.

The fourth or fifth time House curses under his breath, hands bracketing his thigh, Wilson’s arm finally comes down solidly around his shoulders. He doesn’t jerk away from the contact, which is a surprise in and of itself.

“You good? We’re halfway there, only thirty minutes until I can give you the next dose.”

House snarls wordlessly at him but Wilson just tugs him closer, his arm around House a warm, steady presence. Somehow this leads to Wilson pulling House’s bad leg across his lap, House pressed all up against his side, that arm still around his shoulders. Wilson’s fingers find his ankle, pressing firm but gentle patterns into his skin. He supposes it’s supposed to draw his attention away from the pain, and it works enough that House doesn’t immediately pull himself out of the weird…cuddle or whatever this is.

“I still think you’re full of shit,” Wilson says conversationally, like they’re not so close that House can feel the other man’s breath feathering across his skin. “White lies can be kind. There’s a difference between being honest with someone and just straight up being an asshole.”

“There’s no excuse for dishonesty,” House finds himself snapping.

“You lie all the the time!”

And just like that they’re off again.

oOo

A soft touch to House’s face wakes him.

He’s groggy, coming out of sleep slowly and with difficulty. But he’s not so out of it to not realize that this is the second time Wilson has woken him this way. A warm caress, a knowing little smile.

He must have fallen asleep on the couch after Wilson had given him that next dose of Vicodin. It’s astounding actually, because they’re still tangled up together and House’s body is lax and comfortable in a way he never is when he’s this close to someone physically.

“You should probably go to bed,” Wilson is saying, voice hushed. There’s no noise from the TV and the apartment is dark and silent.

And, well. It’s not like this isn’t a perfect opportunity, practically served up on a silver platter.

House leans forward those scant few inches, closes them slowly and with purpose, until he can press his lips to Wilson’s.

It’s nothing more than brush of skin against skin at first, an electric little press of lips. And then Wilson leans into him more and they just..click. Their mouths slide together easily, like they’ve done this a million time, spent a million nights curled up together like this after a long day at work.

A couple of minutes later Wilson pulls away, blinking languidly. He gives House this fond, little knowing smile, but then ruins it when his hand closes over House’s wrist and he says, “You’re not fooling anyone.”

House scowls and lets the bottle of Vicodin be pulled from his fingers. Damn, and he thought he was being so sneaky. His pickpocket skills are usually so much better than that.

“Spoilsport,” he says, and Wilson laughs this quiet, low laugh and presses a kiss to his forehead. It definitely doesn’t make something trill in House’s chest, his heart missing a sudden, inexplicable beat.

“Seriously, let’s go to bed. We’re too old to be sleeping on the couch.”

House allows himself to be helped up off the couch, and they go. 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i take requests and commissions on [tumblr](http://www.scribespirare.tumblr.com/).


End file.
